


when you wake up (the world will come around)

by hopefulundertone



Category: All Time Low
Genre: Bedsharing, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 15:49:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4841249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopefulundertone/pseuds/hopefulundertone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>4:00 am. The numbers burn themselves into the back of Alex's eyes as he blinks tiredly. </p><p>(or, love can be found in the strangest of places at the strangest of times.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	when you wake up (the world will come around)

4:00. The numbers burn themselves into the back of Alex's eyes as he blinks tiredly. He's lying in his bunk in a feeble attempt to induce sleep, but of course, it doesn't work, and he's wound up just staring blankly at the neon red numbers on the small digital clock wedged in between his mattress and the side of the bunk. He blinks, rubs his eyes, and looks at the clock again, hoping against hope that it's changed. The luminescent numbers deny it. 4:00 in the morning, of course. Early for him; usually he'd be in the back of the bus, having a drink and either writing music or speed-surfing the internet, as is his routine, but he hasn't slept in two days. Two days of touring and playing and just fucking losing himself in the overwhelming experience of being on the road.   
It's amazing to be back, but after a while, touring always starts to mess with his sleep schedule and general energy levels more than anything. Earlier today, just before the set, he was tired as all fuck, practically a zombie as they pulled into the venue and set up, to the point where his bandmates were giving him sidelong looks, as if assessing whether he was good to go. It wasn't until soundcheck that he'd started to wake up, and here he was, just a few hours later, filled to the brim with thrumming nervous energy.

Normally, it's the kind of energy that would spur him to write, but just yesterday he'd spent four hours by himself in his bunk scribbling, and his muse is pretty much all worn out, which leaves him with all of this jittery nerves and no outlet to work them out. He tosses and turns, listening to the quiet sounds of the bus. Zack's snoring isn't too bad tonight, and the others are borderline silent. Alex has rarely felt this alone, and he finds he doesn't like it at all. He's about to turn over and look at his phone, giving up all hope of sleep, when there's a loud rustle of bedcovers from the bunk next to him. Probably Jack getting up for a piss, he decides, and grabs his phone.  
He's partially right, at least. It's Jack, but instead of walking through the bunk section to the bathroom, he pauses outside Alex's bunk, and proceeds to slot himself in clumsily. Before Alex can ask what he's doing, he wraps himself around him and paws sleepily at Alex's phone, knocking it out of his hand and onto the floor before giving a satisfied hum and curling into Alex. "Get some fucking sleep, man. You were, like, half-dead today."

He tries, at least. He really does, too, closing his eyes and forcing himself to calm down. It doesn't work, even with the added comfort of Jack's warmth pressed against his side. Presently, he feels Jack's hand on his knee, stilling it, and realises he was jiggling it without noticing. "Go to sleep, asshole." Jack's voice is slurred with sleep himself, and he moves his hand up to rest on Alex's chest, and it feels like it's weighing him down, compressing his lungs, and he feels like he's going to explode. "Jack?"

His bandmate murmurs unintelligibly, burying his head in Alex's chest, and he can't help but smile a little. It's objectively adorable, the way his skunk hair sticks out in every direction as he hugs Alex's midriff.

"It's just, nothing ever works out in the long run, nothing ever fucking makes it through. There's always a breaking point and that's it, I always get left behind. I don't know what I'm doing wrong." He pauses to gather his thoughts.   
"I don't even know if love exists, they all say it's just dopamine, all chemicals reacting in your brain and nothing else, but that can't be true, right? You can't just attribute this huge emotion to a couple of chemicals. But how would I know, right? Maybe I've never really been in love. If it was love, it'd last." Alex is fully aware he's rambling, alternating between a whisper and a low mumble in his anxiety. Times like this, he just can't get his thoughts to shut off, as if the signals from his tired body aren't getting through to his brain, and he just keeps going. The wheel's snapped off in his hands, but the car's still heading irrevocably towards the cliff edge, and he's been down that road enough times to know it never ends well, but he just cannot stop himself.

Well, until Jack leans up and kisses him.

Then his entire system grinds to a halt and he just stares down at his best friend in the world, still cuddled into his side and apparently unmindful of what he's just done. But Alex knows Jack better than that, and there's a hunch in his shoulders that wasn't there before, as if he can feel their entire relationship shift, a seismic quake that has Alex reeling. Belatedly, he realises he'd tensed up, which was more or less equivalent to a rejection, and curls a hand under Jack's chin in reconciliation as he tries to comprehend.   
It makes sense, in a convoluted way. The longest relationship that he's ever maintained without completely fucking up, the person he's joked and laughed and fought and made up with, who knows all his secrets, been with him through the success and the failures, carried him through the pain with timely booze, celebrated his joys with even more booze, heard most, if not all of his dark, occasionally dirty ideas and still stuck by him through it all. Alex thinks of all the late night phone calls or times hanging out on roofs to watch the stars, afternoons spent in record shops or driving around blasting music, hungover mornings made better and worse with an obnoxious greeting, and maybe.

  
Maybe he's been in love this whole time, and just never noticed, was never looking in the right place.

  
Alex looks down at Jack, who's watching him through half-closed eyelids, sleepiness battling nerves, and can't help himself. He kisses Jack, tilting his chin up and nibbling gently at his lip until he parts them in a quiet gasp and then licking at his mouth until it turns into a faint groan. They make out lazily for a while, tangling limbs, and Alex can't keep his hands off Jack, can't stop touching him to make sure that, yes, he's still there, still real, this isn't a fever dream born of no sleep and constant stress. He hitches up Jack's shirt, slides his hands under them and smiles against Jack's shoulder when he complains that Alex's hands are "fucking freezing, dude".  
Eventually, Jack pushes gently at his shoulder, mumbling. "Go to sleep. More makin' out tomorrow. Sleep first." And he can't argue. He does want to sleep, and he definitely doesn't want Jack to be deprived of sleep, and he's all in favour of more making out tomorrow, so he pulls back, smiling as Jack cuddles into him. Alex thinks he can finally sleep, and wriggles back into his pillow, eyelids already heavy. "'Night, Jack."  
He's asleep before he can hear the sleepy, "Night, 'lex."


End file.
